


Becoming Arthur

by Boccaccio



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: Gen, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boccaccio/pseuds/Boccaccio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of Arthur's childhood. Although confined within the body of a girl, Arthur has never felt like anything less than a knight. Denied training and subject to the rules restricting a female body, he yearns to prove himself to his father who does not understand. When he pulls the sword from the stone in a churchyard, he wins his father's approval but is unprepared for the catastrophic chain of events that will follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for some wonky formatting but I'm new Ao3 and I'm not sure how to fix it?

In the old days of Briton lived a boy who would become king, though he did not know it. He was raised by the good Sir Ector who he called father, and his brother was Sir Kay, a knight of great strength, but ill manners. He had full run of his father’s manor house, spoke familiarly with the servants, and often hid from the watchful eye of Beatrice, the maid who insisted he must not run after his brother, but be trained in the gentler arts and keep his hair neatly braided.

            For the boy was cursed from birth to live in the body of a maid. His figure he hated, and his hair he kept bound and pinned to his head. They called him Agnes, and the name haunted him with the reminder that he would not be received for who he was.

            In his thirteenth year, he found the courage to speak to his father about the matter. And so when Sir Ector returned home from the hunt in the early evening, when the sky was stained with gold and red, Agnes road out to meet him on his palfrey. When sir Ector saw him approach, he called to him:

            “Good evening, fair maid. What brings you from home?”

            “I must speak with you, father,” said Agnes, and when Ector saw the solemnity in his eyes, he sent his men on ahead so they might talk. He slowed his horse so the palfrey might walk along side with ease.

            Agnes could not find the words to explain what felt so obvious to him, but his father was in good spirits, and brought his horse to a halt at the gate of a churchyard.

            “Let us rest,” he said, “For I have been riding all day, and I long for solid ground.”

            He led Agnes through the gate and into the courtyard, where stood a stone anvil. In this anvil was a sword, which no man had the strength to move, though many for miles tried. Engraved on the anvil were the words: “Whoso ullet out this sword of this stone is the rightwise born king of all England”. And here Agnes saw a chance.

            “I would that I might try the sword,” he said. Ector smiled.

            “A fine king thou wouldst make, daughter. But kingdoms were not meant to be ruled by maids, even those as fair and brave as thee.”

            “Aye, but what if I were a man?”

            “Then wouldst thou try. But thou art not.”

            “I think,” said Agnes, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice (for men did not weep), “that perhaps I was not meant to be a maid, for knighthood would suit me better than the pursuits that are allowed me.”

            “Ah, my fair daughter,” said Ector, cupping his face in his hands, “Think not of such things. For thou wert born a maid, and God makes no mistakes.”

            “Then I am his first, father, for I am as much a man as thou art!”

            Sir Ector made no answer to him, but turned his back, saying:

            “It is time we got home. They shall wonder about us if we tarry longer.”

 

            Late at night, when he ought to have been asleep, Agnes laid awake in bed, listening to the crickets’ evening hymn. He had heard of a strange old man, deep within the woods, who was skilled at magic art and could, perhaps, fix the curse of nature with which he had been born. So he dressed himself with clothes hidden in his wardrobe, old leftovers from Kay’s younger years. And he bound his breast, so tightly that his breaths came shallow and his chest ached. His golden hair he tied up and hid beneath a simple peasant’s cap, bartered from a poor farmer for an apple and three gold coins.

            Down the stairs he crept (the third one from the bottom creaked) and through the yard into the stables, where he saddled Kay’s horse (for his father’s would carry no one else) and, though his breath was short, mounted him, not as a maid, but as a young man. He took the reins and sped him on, though he knew not the way.

            There was none to halt him on the road, and the horse carried him at a steady trot while each jostle and bump made him gasp for breath. And what should he say, should he meet the magic man? Could he tell him of his curse, or would he, like his father, turn him away? He could not bear it if it were so. He would rather pull the sword from the anvil and drive it through his heart.

            Onward he road, and the forest rose up around him, and the strange footfalls of creeping things haunted his path. If only he had taken his father’s sword (he could barely lift it) to protect himself, as a man should. Perhaps, he said to himself, I am not man enough to be a man. Perhaps the old wizard will turn me away because I am not enough, small as I am. There were stories about wolves in the woods, and he tried not to think on these things as he rode into the night, seeking the wizard.

            At last, he came upon a small thatched hut, with windows aglow with torchlight. He tumbled from the horse, glad that none could see his disgraceful dismounting, and tied the reins to the branches of a tree. Did he look man enough? Or did he look like a lost maid, far from home and desperate? He practiced speaking in the low, gruff voice of his father:

            “Sir, I come to seek your aid.”

            Not panicked (for men did not feel fear), but spoken with a dignified urgency. He felt that he could fool no one, but he approached the hut and raised his fist to knock. The door opened before he could, and there stood the old man, his long, white beard trailing the floor, his pointed hat askew and perched on top of an unruly mountain of hair. In one hand, he grasped a twisted staff.

            “I have been expecting thee, lad,” he said before Agnes could speak, “For thou hast ridden many hours. Come inside.”

            Ah, he calls me lad, he thought, perhaps I am well disguised.

The light in the hut came from the roaring fire, over which hung a cauldron, bubbling blue. Books towered over him, stacked in no order, or perhaps and order known only to the wizard. He found himself a seat on one of the smaller stacks, and the old man pushed a cup of tea into his hands. Agnes looked at it suspiciously.

            “Do not be afraid. It is only herbal tea.”

            He took a small sip, and when he found that it did not turn him into anything unseemly, he drank more and it seemed to strengthen him.

            “I knew thou wouldst come, though I knew not if it be tonight or tomorrow or next year. Thy coming has been foretold.”

            “By who?”

            “By myself,” said the wizard, “And I am seldom mistaken.”

            “Dost thou know,” he stared to ask the question but found the words stuck, “Dost thou know?”

            “Of thy curse? Yes, though I assure you it was not placed by me, but by nature.”

            “Sir-”

            “Merlin,” said the wizard.

            “Merlin. Sir. Canst thou fix…might I be made right?”

            “There is a spell for everything. But it is not time yet.”

            “But sir-”

            He could not wait. Thirteen years had felt long enough, and to wait longer to be made right he felt would kill him.

            “When thou art a man in spirit, then thou shalt be a man in body as well. This is also written. You see,” he peered down at him with piercing eyes, “It cannot be done all at once. But it will be done ere long.”

            “I have come all this way.”

            “And you have a long way to do before thou art a man.”

            “But I am not a maid, nor I am meant to be a lady.

            “No, but thou art not yet a man,” said Merlin, “And that makes all the difference.”

            Agnes leapt to his feet.

            “Then I shall go forth,” he cried, “And find the fiercest knight that I may, and when I shall smite him down, then all shalt see that I am a man!”

            Merlin smiled.

            “Boy, thou knowst little of manhood.”

            “Why, what is a man, then? If manhood is not won by the sword, how can it be?”

            “Thou shalt see by and by.”

            “And then thou wilt come to me?”

            “Yes, lad. Then, thou shalt be restored.”

            Both looked to the windows, to see the grey morning mist creeping through the trees.

            “Thou must be gone,” said Merlin, “But  not without a gift. If thou art to be a man, thou must have a name befitting of a man. Arthur shalt thou be, and thou shalt live to carry it well.”

           

            So Arthur took leave of the wizard, heartened by his promise, and mounted his brother’s horse. He would present himself to Ector and be taken on as a squire, where he could learn the ways of knighthood and become a man. He would make the old wizard proud, and then perhaps, his father would understand.

            When he came out of the woods, he saw a distant figure speeding toward him, and as it came closer, he saw that it was his father, riding at full gallop. When Ector saw him, he stalled his ride.

            “Lad,” he demanded, “Why have you my son’s horse?”

            “Sir,” he almost said father, “I found him in the wood, and I thought to return him to whoever might own him.”

            “And was there a maid with him?”

            “No sir.”

            Ector’s shoulders drooped and he hung his head.

            “I have lost my daughter,” he said, “Perhaps I was unkind…are you sure you have seen no maid?”

            “None, though I wish I might be of service to thee.”

            “Hast thou ridden long?”

            “Through the night, sir.”

            “There is a church nearby where you might take rest,” said Ector, “And when I return in the evening, you made ride on with me to my manor, where you might stay the night. But now I must search for her. I pray to God she lives.”

            He wanted then to say “It is I”, but to hear his father call him lad was too great a joy to lose.

            “I shall pray for you, sir.”

            “And what is your name, boy?”

            “I am called Arthur.”

            “Go to the church, Arthur. Tell them Sir Ector sends you.”

           

Arthur sat out in the courtyard all day and waited for him, watching the sun crawl across the sky that turned from pale blue to deep purple and the clouds that burnt bright orange when the sun dipped low. Distant smoke rose from chimneys on the horizon, as lord and peasant alike came home for the evening meal.

Ector appeared at dusk, his shoulders slumped and his face grim. Arthur longed to run to him and reveal himself, but it was better to be seen as an unfamiliar boy than as a daughter.

“I did not find her,” said Ector, “But I was met on my return by Merlin the enchanter. He said that I would find who I lost, though I would find her changed.”

He said down beside Arthur on the church steps.

“That is hope, but it is not much comfort. She spoke so strangely when she left…”

He buried his face in his hands, and Arthur knew not how to comfort him. He must tell him, so that his father would not suffer, but again his words stuck, and so he said:

“Sir, tell me of that sword which stick from the anvil there.”

“Ah, lad. Thou must have come a long way, if thou knowest not, for every man and boy within riding distance (and a good many further) has tried their hand to remove the stone, though none can budge it. If thou canst read, thou wilt mark the writing on the stone: ‘Whoso ullet out this sword of this stone is the rightwise born king of all England’. There it has been for many a year, and none has been found who can move it.”

“I would like to try,” said Arthur. Ector smiled, though his face was weary and sad.

“Tis the right of every boy to try. My own dear daughter coveted this right. I ought not to have laughed but let her, for what harm could have been done from it? You may try, my boy, for it is as likely you will budge the sword as she.”

Palms sweating, Athur climbed onto the anvil. It would not move for him, he knew, for he was young and unwhole, but all his life he had wanted to try, and now at last he gripped the hilt in both hands, pausing to savor the cool leather, until the feeling of it was burned into his mind and at last he pulled with every ounce of his thirteen-year-old strength. Short of breath, muscles aching, he felt the sword give, and with a massive effort, he heaved it from the stone and held it aloft over his head, arms shaking with exertion, heart pounding in his tightly-bound chest.

Ector fell to his knees.

“My king!”

“Not a king, father,” said Arthur, shaking the cap from his head so his long hair fell loose, “Not a king.”

Ector looked up, eyes glistening.

“My king,” he said again, “and my son.”

He could no longer hold the blade and it flew from his grasp, clattering on the cobblestone. His feet slipped and he fell backward and his father leaped to catch him and held him close, weeping.

“I am sorry,” said Arthur, “I ought to have said twas I.”  

“My son, ‘tis I that beg forgiveness,” Ector said, setting him down, “For thou said thou wast as much a man as I, and I ought to have listened.”

“Not a man, father,” said Arthur, lifting the sword with both hands, “Nor a king, either.”

And, climbing onto the anvil, he slid the sword back into place.

“I am but a boy, yet. A man shalt I be someday and after that, king, if I must be.”

 They road home together, and Arthur told his father of last night’s ride, and Merlin’s prophecy. Ector spoke little, but listened with rapt attention to his son’s words, and held them in his heart.


End file.
